Dropping beggar's chicken

Those were the days.

Do you dread hearing your voice on a recording? Or watching yourself on video? That's how I feel about reading things I wrote in the distant past. The other day I opened my own cookbook to consult the recipe for bagels and wouldn't let my eyes wander over the headnotes or anything other than the recipe itself lest I come across a stupid or awkward line it's too late to change. 

This morning I thought, shoot, why did I mention dropping a beggar's chicken? The only way to explain is to link to posts from the start of this blog when the only people who read it were blood relatives. And that means I have to reread them.

I'm so glad I did. They're like sweet, sweet little time capsules. I'd forgotten what my life was like in 2008. It was very different.

Beggar's chicken is a classic Chinese dish and at some point I decided to make it. My mother was still alive and since she was a potter, she created the clay "container" in which you cook the chicken (see photo above.) That's how elaborate beggar's chicken is. I'm not sure I would have written about what happened later, but the lone commenter, thanksalot/sassy Isabel, forced the issue,

What happened was, I dropped and broke the beggar's chicken while pulling it out of the oven.

Later I took Owen out to eat proper beggar's chicken in a restaurant. He was so little! I didn't realize how little my kids were when they're little. I feel like he's all grown up now that he's 13 and has giant feet and a baritone, but in a few years I bet I'll see pictures and be shocked at how young and innocent he looked in 2014.

The Seventh Daughter: Beggar's Chicken, Part IV

Ah, now that's a Beggar's Chicken!

Last night, I bribed Owen with a copy of Ralph Masiello's Dragon Drawing Book, and we went to Shanghai 1930 which is, as far as I can tell, the only restaurant in San Francisco that currently serves Beggar's Chicken. (Cecilia Chiang helped write their menu.) Our garrulous waiter told us the history of the dish: A Chinese beggar had no cooking vessel, so he wrapped his bird in lotus leaves and pond mud, then buried it in a fire pit. When it came out, everyone thought it was the best chicken they'd ever eaten.

What kind of silly beggar shares his chicken?

Owen cracked the crust which was made of bread dough because the health department will not allow Shanghai 1930 to use clay. Or so they say.

Then the chicken was deboned, doused in a sumptuous cocoa-brown sauce, and served to us in its lotus leaf wrapping. It looks like a mess, and Owen -- who had just downed a pint of Shirley Temple -- announced that it tasted strange, like tea, and immediately went back to drawing dragons.

Alas, I thought it was incredible. The stuffing was smoother than mine, and staggeringly rich and savory, including ginkgo nuts, ham, and plush Chinese dates. I made a disgraceful pig of myself.

Today I am turning over a new lotus leaf and never, ever making a pig of myself again.

The Seventh Daughter: Beggar's Chicken, Part II

Are words really necessary?

So I dropped the Beggar's Chicken. So we didn't get to ceremoniously crack the clay crust with a hammer at the table. So I ended up with a greasy clay slurry all over my kitchen floor. Big deal. I'm over it.

Happy now thanksalot?

The chicken itself was luscious. Stella liked it. Or did we just tell her to pose like she did for a photo?
The stuffing -- full of Virginia ham and black mushrooms -- was terrific. Meat, moist and tender. Served Cecilia's garlic noodles as a side. Also a three-shreds salad (wimpy) and some salty star-anise peanuts.

For dessert: red bean cakes. "When I was a girl, vendors with steamers set over braziers on the back of their rickshaws used to ride through the alleys and streets of Beijing selling warm sweet bean cakes," Cecilia Chiang reminisces.

In the absence of vendors on rickshaws, you can make your own bean cakes according to Madame Chiang's recipe. Cook tiny Chinese beans, then soak them in a sugar syrup. Mix the syrup and beans with a pound of rice flour, pour into a buttered cake tin and steam over boiling water for an hour.

At this point the cake has the texture of an eraser and is the color of a bruise. You thinly slice, dip in sugar, and fry in peanut oil, which gives each piece a crisp, caramelized crust. In the photograph below, the bean cakes are the ragged things that look like burnt meat loaf. I wish I'd bothered to stage this shot with a little more panache because the cakes were, in fact, strangely addictive. But this was the end of a long, slightly tragic evening.